


I want to dream

by ladyzanra



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Music, Coda, Episode Tag, Episode: s10e09 The Things We Left Behind, Established Relationship, M/M, Mark of Cain, Post-Episode: s10e09 The Things We Left Behind, kinda!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2784770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyzanra/pseuds/ladyzanra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Didn’t really take you for the gimmicky commercialized holiday thing. Or the religious holiday thing. Didn’t really think you cared about Christmas." Dean frowns at Cas as Cas frowns at the different kinds of bagged walnuts.</p>
<p>"But you do," Cas says.</p>
<p>(coda for 10x09)</p>
            </blockquote>





	I want to dream

“I think we’ve been over this before,” Cas says with a faint frown, taking another bag of pretzels off of the shelf and squinting at the label. He doesn’t look at Dean.

Dean wrinkles his eyebrows and looks around the aisle, as if maybe Cas is talking to someone else. “I haven’t said anything.”

“Not out loud,” Cas says.

“Oh. So we’re reading minds again,” Dean says testily. “Nice. That’s… nice.” But his stomach drops to somewhere around his knees.

Cas looks at him with eyes that are troubled and sad and thoughtful at once. Dean hates that Cas is always catching him off guard, showing emotions without any warning, like he’s wearing a headlamp on his forehead and forgot it was still there and just shines it unwittingly at everyone and everything.

“Dean,” he says in a quiet voice, “it’s perfectly safe for you to be in a grocery store around other people right now.”

“Yeah,” Dean says uncomfortably, “until someone walks into me or beats me to the last of the Doritos.” He tries to make it sound like a joke but he doesn’t really pull it off. He grabs the bag out of Cas’s hand and throws it into the cart, because Cas has been looking at the pretzels for maybe a million years.

They have a cart.

Dean wonders what that means for the estimated length of this grocery venture.

It’s three in the afternoon. The supermarket is only a little crowded but their particular aisle is choked with carts. It’s two weeks before Christmas and Cas, for some reason he hasn’t yet provided, has dragged Dean out shopping, after days of Sam and Cas making sure Dean didn’t leave the bunker. (Their substitute for ganking him, apparently.) In the car, Dean had grudgingly conceded that it was a welcome change of scenery, but here in the store his fears have begun to return. At least the really _serious_  holiday rush hasn’t hit yet, though. Those are a bitch.

Cas leans in a little closer. “We’ve stopped you from hunting for the time being. We’ve taken away all your weapons.”

“Yeah, well, actually,” Dean says, “I still have a—”

“No, you don’t.” Cas looks at him a little blankly. “I’ve been reading your mind.”

So that knife that Dean thought was strapped to his ankle isn’t there anymore. He has no recollection of when Cas might have taken it. He almost lifts his leg to check but stops himself.

“I _hate_  being unarmed,” Dean says sincerely, continuing to argue just for the sake of it. “You know that, right? I feel fucking naked.”

Dean regrets that word choice. Cas opens his mouth to say something and Dean prays to no one in particular that Cas won’t  _say anything_. No-one-in-particular must be listening, because after a moment, Cas just closes his mouth again, thank god. “You have me to protect you,” he says simply, innocently.

Dean’s still not sure how trustworthy Cas is, so he backtracks to the first argument.

“Even without weapons, I could strangle people with my bare hands,” Dean says, following Cas to aisle five, his tone like  _game over, man, I win._

“But we’ve found other uses for your hands, haven’t we,” Cas says, absently.

Dean can feel his face go bright red.

Bastard went there after all. Dean looks around the soda aisle and is pretty sure that everybody else here heard Cas and knows exactly what Cas meant, and is just pretending they're not thinking about it.

Dean doesn't forgive Cas for the next half hour, just follows him around without speaking, moody and unhelpful.

But he's begrudgingly curious when Cas's journey takes them to the baking aisle and Cas spends a long time picking out flour. Dean opens his mouth to ask what they are actually up to here when a small, fast moving object collides roughly with the back of his leg.

Dean spins around and watches two little kids running in intentional, crazy zigzags down the aisle.

The Mark doesn't flare up from the sudden upset; all Dean feels is a prickling heat where the scar is. But his chest clenches as he watches the little kids. Cas and Sam have been helping, but they haven't found a way to get _rid_ of the Mark, and without their constant attention, it would just get stronger again. And fuck, Dean doesn't want to hurt anyone else.

Dean was gonna kill Sam when Gadreel took control of him. He was gonna gank Cas when Cas tried to make himself god. His gut twists suddenly with guilt that here he is, still alive, being looked after.

“Dean,” Cas says, with careful sharpness, his eyes suddenly glued to Dean's profile.

He slides his hand up Dean's arm, pushing his sleeve back, and eases a small amount of grace into the scar. Dean shivers like his bones have been stabbed with ice, which is par the course for this kind of thing.

It's a way of feeding the Mark, Cas had explained, except like tricking it into eating poison.

“This isn't going to work forever,” Dean says. “Cas, eventually you're gonna have to—”

“Yes, Dean, I've heard your opinion on the matter. Given that it's a stupid-ass opinion, I've elected to ignore it.”

Dean blinks a little indignantly at a reference from a movie he likes being used against him. _Fucking Metatron_.

“Now _that_ I agree with. Here.” Cas hands Dean three different packages of flour to put in the cart. He moves on to inspect the various types of sugar. He takes out his phone and checks something. Dean doesn't realize until it's too late that he obliged Cas's request without protest. He rolls his eyes in annoyance.

“ _What_ are we doing here?”

Cas looks up at Dean with a sudden, suspicious amount of pride, like that time he told Dean he was going to be a hunter, except is smile is smoothed over, spreads out much more naturally across his face now. “We're going to bake cookies.”

“We. What. Is this something you read in one of your How To Tame Your Hunter magazines?” Dean blushes again. The fuck.

In his defense, they're really fucking new. Like, as of six days ago new.

“It's a Christmas tradition,” Cas says, mercifully straight-faced.

“Didn't really take you for the gimmicky commercialized holiday thing. Or the religious holiday thing. Didn't really think you cared about Christmas.” Dean frowns at Cas as Cas frowns at the different kinds of bagged pecans.

“But you do,” Cas says.

Dean's gut twists again. So this is just another thing Sam and Cas have discussed about him, another thing they're doing for him. He ignores the stab of realization that this is the first Christmas all three of them have been together for. Because it's not like this actually counts, anyway. He fucked it up way back last year, the moment he shook Cain's hand.

Cas straightens his shoulders, looking thoughtful. He's quiet for a few moments. “Come on,” he says softly. “The lights are supposed to be in aisle eleven.”

“Lights.”

“For the tree,” Cas says, and, considering all explained, takes off, mission-bent. Dean follows him with the cart.

“We don't have a tree.”

“Don't worry,” Cas beams at him, his blue eyes sparking with accomplishment again in a way that makes Dean's heart ache painfully. “I found a place where we can get one.”

***

Neither of them have picked out a tree before.

The light is fading and the air is crisp and cold, car lights beginning to glow visibly as they slide past on the road. Cas is clearly affected by the cold but not saying anything about it; his cheeks are flushed and his eyes are watery. Dean is not happy with him. He keeps saying things like “this tree was very good at absorbing water” or “this one will last almost two months longer” and finally Dean snaps between barred teeth, because the guy working the lot is giving them weird looks, “Cas, they're just trees. You don't need to go all angel-know-it-all on them.”

“Fine,” Cas says, withdrawing instantly. “You pick one out.”

Dean gives the trees a discerning scan in the sudden tense silence. That's when he realizes that 'neither of them' includes him. He swallows, looks back and forth some more. He walks over to one of the taller ones and kind of, inspects it. Bends a branch a little to like, test the freshness. It snaps back into place in a shiver of pine needles. “Um. So. What about this one?”

The corner of Cas's mouth quirks up very slightly before he turns his attention to the tree. “This one almost didn't grow at all. The odds were against it. But it was stubborn and insisted. I like it.”

Dean doesn't admit to liking it, but he waves the tree seller over.

They bungee it to the top of the Impala. The Impala creaks a little as they work. “I'm sorry, Baby,” Dean says. “It was his idea, not mine.”

“It's just a car, Dean,” Cas parrots back.

“ _Wow_ ,” Dean says, watching in amazement as Cas opens the door and neatly tucks himself into the passenger seat, getting away with it.

They don't talk in the car, simply because they don't seem to need to. Dean feels oddly safe, shadows slipping cozily over his hands on the wheels. Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea. He hears Cas sniffle in the dark and he is about to be annoyed when he gets an idea of his own.

He pulls into upcoming Target and parks the car. He gets out and walks around to Cas's side. “Come on,” he urges gently, and leads Cas inside. He takes Cas to the hats and gloves section.

Cas sighs and protests mildly. “Dean, I don't—”

Dean plants a hat on his head in response. It's a green beanie with a pom pom on top. Dean grimaces, but it's more like he's fighting not to smile. This motherfucker. This actual, literal angel who is _billions of years old_ is the most adorable thing Dean has ever seen. After several more hats, Dean loses it and bursts out laughing. Cas's ruffled self-consciousness grows profound. Dean looks at his grumpy expression and just laughs harder.

“Dean,” Cas says, upset that Dean isn't taking him seriously. “This isn't necessa—”

Dean kisses him right there in the store to shut him up.

***

Dean looks around the com room and thinks that Cas doesn't exactly _get_ how to be festive. At the same time, Cas has definitely gone overboard.

The tree is standing – in a stand, with a penguin-decorated stand cover – to the side of the war table, blocking the way to some panels and monitoring systems and rendering them even more useless than they've already been, lately. The War Table, likewise, is buried beneath Christmas joy: snow globes and candles and a weird wreath centerpiece with paper berries and glittery gold ribbon. Cas has acquired a straw reindeer the height of Dean's knees, which he's placed at the foot of the stairs. Dean notices there are no religious decorations. Cas is at the top of the balcony, twining an endless string of lights through the railings.

Dean wonders how long he's been out, for Cas to have done so much all ready. He'd been so suddenly exhausted when they'd come back to the bunker that he'd passed out almost immediately. He thinks maybe he's been out for days. Cas has been doing that – putting him under for days at a time because it's supposed to help weaken the Mark even more. Dean could ask, but for some reason, he doesn't dare to.

Instead he stares at the tree, glowing blurredly in dimmed-down room. The lights strung around it are a little crooked, and his heart squeezes in his chest, a strange sadness overcoming him. It is... not the best-decorated tree he's ever seen. It has a few bulbs and ordinary-enough ornaments and an ordinary star on top, but otherwise, the decorations are unpredictable, a spontaneous jumble of... uh, god knows what. Jewelry Cas must have found somewhere in the bunker, weird little talismans, a wooden square picture frame ornament Dean really hopes does not have a picture inside. Tinsel sticking out here and there in thick tufts. It looks more like a large, glittering nest.

It makes Dean sad but he loves it.

Dean walks up the stairs. He sticks his hand into the bowl of candy Cas has put on the table and pulls out a green rolo. There are like, at least five of these candy stations around the bunker. Dean's not about to tell Cas that bowls of candy are generally for public offices and stuff, not private living spaces. Besides, he climbed a whole set of stairs for this one.

He unwraps it and pops it into his mouth, biting into the chewiness and sucking at the flavor for a while, leaning his forearms on the balcony.

He watches Cas beside him carefully knot the end of the light string around the third to last circle in the railing, light reflecting in the hollows of his cheeks as he concentrates. He retracts his hands and stands up. “Do you like it?” he asks, bluntly vulnerable, turning to Dean uncertainly.

Dean stares at the glowing balcony, the light a cozy orange-yellow wrapped around the bunker's austere railings. He looks down at the Christmas tree, small from this height, sitting there like it is the most ordinary thing in the world and knows it. He looks at the snow globes and candles covering the maps and at the reindeer guarding the foot of the stairs.

He remembers being a kid on Christmas and convincing himself he didn't care that he didn't have any of this, didn't even have a _place_ to have all of this. He tries to say something but suddenly there's a lump in his throat. There's something burning a hole through his chest, like a cigarette burning through paper. He just nods.

Cas stands close to him, leaning his arms on the balcony too, not letting Dean retreat into himself or get closed up in emotions by keeping him company. Keeping vigil.

***

Dean stands in the kitchen doorway, eyes still sticky and bleary with sleep and hair probably gloriously bedheaded. He's having a hard time waking up. He thinks maybe he's been asleep for even longer this time.

He sniffs again.

“Cas, what the hell are you doing?”

The kitchen is, quite honestly, a disaster. Every flat surface is covered in bowls and bags of flour and sugar and packages of butter and whisks and wooden spoons and rolling pins and cookie sheets. Several sheets in a corner yield the questionable results of Cas's labor. He has a huge spot of flour of his cheek and flour dotting his eyelashes. It's his only saving grace.

He ignores Dean, concentrating on cracking an egg like he's cutting bomb wires.

“You started without me.” Dean tries not to think about how much of the ingredients have been wasted.

“I wanted to test the recipes. Besides, you needed your sleep.”

_Ah,_ Dean mouths sarcastically; like that absolves Cas. “Where's Sam?”

“Why?” Cas shoots him a strangely defensive, self-conscious look. “Sam is not my babysitter.”

Dean looks at the cookies, hungry despite himself. “So, uh. Is anything actually edible?”

Cas gives him his best pre-smite face.

It doesn't stop Dean from walking over and picking out the least burnt cookie and shoving it into his mouth. “Crunchy,” is all Dean allows himself to say. Cas's shoulders sag. Then it hits him that this _really_ does not taste good, and Dean feels another pang in his chest, and he hopes Cas isn't reading his mind.

“Here.” Dean walks over and gently gestures for Cas's phone, which Cas has been following a recipe with. Cas hands it over with a mix of injured pride and resigned relief. Dean scrolls through the recipe. “Yeah,” Dean looks at the unmixed ingredients in the blow, “you're measuring wrong.”

“I've only been baking for three hours of my entire existence,” Cas says sulkily.

_Three hours is all it took for you to make this much of a mess?_ Dean tries not to think. He dumps the bowl in the trash so they can start over. He shows Cas what the measuring abbreviations mean – Cas swears he already knew, but Dean's not sure about that – and how to tap the side of the measuring cup and how to flatten the flour and sugar. Cas watches, curious and quiet.

“Hey, Cas?” Dean says, to break up the silence. “How old _are_ you, anyway??”

“I don't know.” Cas frowns. “Angels don't have any need of measurements of time in relation to themselves. We don't age. And earth years are not consistent enough to accurately measure anything beyond a few million years.”

Dean breaks the egg yolk and mixes it in with the dough. “So basically, you're old as dirt.”

“Older, technically speaking.”

Dean pours the batter into cookie-shaped blobs on the cookie sheet. “I dunno,” he muses, “if you don't age, can you really be old?”

“That was surprisingly philosophical of you.”

“Bite me.” Thinking about the cookies had made Dean think about how Cas can only taste them in molecules. That's _all_.

“Maybe later,” Cas says.

It takes Dean a few minutes to recover from the reminder that this is a way they now talk.

“How are you feeling?” Cas asks suddenly, quieter.

Dean shrugs, surprisingly at ease. “Door's open,” Dean points at his head, then slides the cookies in the oven. “Come on in.”

“I want you to tell me.”

Dean wants to be annoyed that Cas is pressing him but he can't, especially when he hears his own words. “I'm... good.” He feels a little dazed by his own honesty.

“Good,” Cas says simply.

Dean takes a deep breath and brushes it off. “All right, you're up. Next batch is all yours. Show me what you got.”

Cas's expression changes to one of formidable determination.

***

What Cas has is endurance. Dean has been finding out lately that he has a _lot_ of endurance, even with his grace fading. Dean should have realized that that would extend to pretty much everything that caught Cas's attention. Even dumb little human things like cookies.

He should have expected this.

There are snickerdoodles and pecan cookies. Oatmeal raisin and chocolate chip and peanut butter. Double chocolate and ones with Reeses cups stuck in their centers. Frosted ones. By the second day they are officially out of both sugar and flour. Cas pulls the last batch out of the oven, the warm sugary smells swelling to fill the whole room. Cas uses the potholders instead of his grace to set the sheets on the stove.

Once again, he takes out his phone to take a picture and send it to Claire. Once again, Dean feels a vague secondhand embarrassment for him. Once again, Dean smiles anyway.

After a few minutes, Cas's phone makes a message reply sound.

“What does she say?”

“She says to stop making her hungry.” Then Cas shoves one of the fresh cookies into Dean's mouth without warning. “How does it taste?”

Dean should have been expecting that, too, since Cas has been using him as a tester the entire time. Dean chews. It's regular chocolate chip. It's not burnt. It's not gooey either. It's a little over-sweet, but Dean's not bothered by that. It's maybe a little dry. It's not the best cookie in the world, and yet somehow it is, cause it's Cas. “It's good,” Dean nods, still with his mouth half full. “I think you've finally got the hang of it.” Pleased, Cas heads back to the stove to put the cookies on a plate. Dean softly slaps him on the ass as he goes, _good job_ and _my baby's all grown up_. Cas doesn't look at him but Dean knows he's made a note of it and will return it in some way, at some point. Castiel takes games very seriously.

Dean's not even a little hesitant or nervous about them, about this, right now. He's super relaxed. He's eaten like, a third of the cookies Cas made today and he's floating away on an ocean of sugar and warm happy vibes. He hasn't felt the Mark since the grocery store. He hasn't had nightmares since Cas came back with them. And ever since he woke up it's been like a dream, on top of the dreamlike state Cas has already been inducing – teaching Cas how to bake, baking together, the two of them creating heap after heap of delicious heartwarming things.

Okay, maybe Dean feels a little sick.

He'll keep eating anyway if he stays here, so he gets a clean plate and starts to fill it with one of each kind. “Gonna go take some of these to Sam, if he's still alive,” Dean says. Sam hasn't dropped by once. Dean is uncomfortably aware that Sam might be giving them space alone together on purpose, but he tries not to be, because Sam isn't supposed to know about them. Dean had made sure Cas had understood that. And Dean has been known to be paranoid before. “Why don't you get started on the clean up,” Dean nods at him and leaves before Cas can reply.

He finds Sam in the library, pouring over books. Dean catches a glimpse of the page Sam is reading and suddenly feels like he's been punched in the stomach. He pretends he didn't see it. “Merry Christmas, nerd,” he says too cheerfully, and drops the plate down on top of the book. Sam only jumps a little bit. “If you don't eat every single one, you'll make Cas sad.”

“Wow,” Sam rubs his eyes wearily and stares. “Those look. How long have you two been at this?” He picks one up and crunches into it.

Dean wants to ask him the same thing, but swallows the retort. What the fuck had he been _expecting_ Sam to be doing, all this time? It's the same thing Cas has been doing: helping him, just in a different way. Nothing's changed. “Honestly, I've kinda lost track of time. Cas is a _machine_. And not just with baking,” Dean adds for some reason, looking over his shoulder at the com room. “Did you see what he did out there?”

“Kinda hard not to,” Sam says, like it's a mild surprise and not something he planned with Cas ahead of time. “I kinda like it,” he says, nodding like this is just his usual lack of interest in Christmassy things.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Me too. Except for Rudolph.” That's a lie. Dean likes the reindeer. He was very sorry to trip over it and damage one of its legs.

The conversation stagnates after that, both of them pretending Sam isn't researching ways of summoning Cain. Dean raps his knuckles on the table. “I mean it. You eat them all and tell Cas how good they are. You hear me?” He doesn't mean for it to sound gruff and irritated but it kind of does.

“Yes, sir,” Sam nods.

Dean heads back to the kitchen. He's starting to feel heat beneath his skin again, and there's a faint taste of blood in his mouth. His head feels a little hot. He shakes it.

He walks back into the kitchen and finds that Cas has already made his move in response to Dean's slapping of his ass. Or maybe not. Maybe Cas had been planning this all along, too. There's an mp3 player hooked up to two speakers on the table and Frank Sinatra is crooning out “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas'. Dean stops still, staring in surprise.

Cas studies his reaction. He squints a little, looking worried. “Too cheesy?”

The literal cheesiest. Dean opens his mouth to say something but can't form any words. Suddenly there's a weight on his chest, a feeling like his heart has been cut open and is pouring out along with the music.

“No,” he says, oddly breathless. “No, uh, it's fine.” It's not fine, but not for the reasons Cas thinks. So it's fine. _Let your heart be light_ , Sinatra says, _next year all our troubles will be out of sight._ This has always been a song for other people. Never for Dean. “Doesn't get you out of cleaning the kitchen, though,” Dean says. Cas hasn't made a single effort to clean it.

Dean is drawn in by Cas's gravitational pull, made stronger by the song. He wraps his arms around Cas's waist and puts his forehead against Cas's just to feel the way Cas smiles, to keep that smile all for himself.

Dean can't believe they are actually standing like this, that Dean is this clsose to him and that Cas is still here, not just taking off at the drop of a hat. Dean can hardly remember how it happened or why; just that it seemed to make perfect sense at the time. The most they'be talked about it is Cas making blunt, literal remarks. Dean holds Cas close and can't remember half of the things about him that he thinks he maybe _should_ be able to. Everything that Cas is and has been to him and Dean can't hold it all in his head at once. Cas is just Cas, same as before, except now Dean kisses him. Now Cas fucks him. This is confusingly ordinary and wonderful.

This would feel almost anticlimactic if Dean thought there was a chance of it lasting. If there was a chance at all of both Dean and Cas surviving the trouble they're in right now.

“Do you think we should dance?” Cas asks.

“Okay.”

“I don't know how,” Cas admits after a moment.

But he catches on pretty quickly to what Dean teaches him, his inherent resourcefulness making up for his stiffness and mild clumsiness. As Dean lets himself get lost in the gentling sway, Cas somehow takes the lead, their fingers clasped together, Dean's head dipping into Cas's shoulder. The song ends and Bing Crosby starts serenading them with “I'll Be Home For Christmas”. This is pretty stupid, Dean thinks.

He thinks, he doesn't want it to end.

“Where'd you find this, anyway?”

“The sign at Walmart said this would make the season bright.”

“Ah,” Dean says, meaninglessly. He's quiet for a while.

“We'll have to make dinner soon,” Cas says, out of the blue.

Dean looks up at him in disbelief, but yeah, Cas really means it. He's really concerned about dinner even after they spent the day in the kitchen and the kitchen looks like it was hit by an earthquake. Dean stares at him and then shakes his head and presses his face into Cas's chest and holds him tightly and laughs and laughs. He laughs so hard his eyes tear up.

***

Dinner is lasagna with lots of cheese and lots of meat, and a salad on the side so that Sam doesn't panic too much. Sam doesn't panic at all and he eats everything on his plate. They sit around the War Table, enveloped in the steady, hazy yellow glow of the tree and the balcony lights. They talk. About all sorts of random shit. Actual table talk which Cas navigates through as best as he can. Dean laughs too hard at the smallest things and he knows it. He's too happy. He slaps his knee and laughs until his sides ache.

He looks up and catches the look on Sammy's face before Sam can spread his smile to his eyes again, and Dean feels his heart sink.

He gets up suddenly and clears the table.

“All right, who wants coffee? 'Course what I could really go for is a beer,” Dean mutters, to which he gets no response. They haven't banned him from it like they've banned him from hunting and weapons. But they've been keeping him too busy or too asleep to really have any alone time to drink, and that's probably been on purpose.

He takes the dishes to the kitchen and Cas follows him shortly after, carrying the lasagna. Cas puts it into the fridge and then hovers at Dean's elbow, trying to help with the dishes. Dean pretends he doesn't notice and does them all himself.

“Sam wants to watch something on the television,” Cas says.

“He actually joining us for once? He's not too busy?”

“Yes,” is all Cas says, not rising to the bait, and Dean can't tell if he's glad about that or not.

Feeling mulish, Dean silently follows Cas to the room they use for the television and couch and sits down on the opposite side from Sam, who's channel surfing. “All right, what we got?” Cas sits himself down between them, soundless as a shadow. Sam stops on some black and white film made a million years ago. Dean rolls his eyes but then someone says 'Clarence' and Dean puts his hand up and leans in a little, because oh, this is the movie Meg had been referencing, all that time.

And then they're watching the movie.

Dean tries to follow it, but the screen looks and sounds like it's a mile away, and not much of the story gets through to him. His head feels hot again and the metallic taste in his mouth is much stronger. He can't concentrate. The Mark starts to prickle. He doesn't even realize he's scratching it until Cas's hand shoots out and catches his.

“Dean.”

Dean blinks, shakes himself and presses his mouth into a hard, silent line.

The moment he hears Sam's snoring from the other side of the couch, he stands up. “Yup, I think that's enough for me too, gonna hit the sack. G'night, Cas. Don't stay up too late.” It is not an invitation to follow him.

“Are you all right?” Cas just fucking has to ask.

Dean opens his mouth but then he can't lie to him. He just turns around and leaves.

Cas grabs his arm and before Dean can even think about it, he jerks his arm away.

“Damn it,” Dean snaps, his heart pounding painfully fierce in his chest.

He takes off for his room.

He _knows_ he has no reason to suddenly be this angry, that it's the Mark, but that part of him is pretty much being ignored. He slams the door of his room behind him, breathing hard, and paces around like a caged animal. Which he basically is. He's been here too long. But there's nowhere he can go. He looks at bare walls of his room, at the shelves where he used to have weapons. He'd forked over his computer, given Cas his wallet, even his fucking keys, except for when Cas went with him somewhere. Fuck all this, he thinks, all this Christmas stuff and everything else, it's all just a game, just pretty decorations on the walls of a goddamn prison cell.

“Cas, fuck off,” he snarls, but the door continues to creak open behind him as Cas slips into the room.

There's a silence. Dean doesn't have to turn around to know that Cas is just standing there, observing him.

“Christ, why can't you just leave me alone for one fucking minute every now and then?”

Cas doesn't say anything.

“I just. Can't.” Dean stares at the empty shelves. “I need to get out of here,” he glares at Cas. “I need to be hunting again. _I need to hunt,_ ” Dean says desperately.

Cas shakes his head and tilts it sadly, like the time Dean found him in Purgatory. “No. You need to kill.”

Dean stares at him, defensively.

“Dean, it's the Mark you're feeling right now.”

“Maybe I just fucking hate being being cooped up like this!” Dean shoots back. He's shaking.

Cas's eyes flicker to his arm and back again. “Should we find out which one it is?” Cas asks calmly, but with something like fire in his eyes. Dean grinds his teeth but holds his ground when Cas carefully approaches him. He tenses as Cas pours grace from his fingertips to the Mark, like a ride racing, washing away. The stinging coldness makes Dean shiver suddenly, sharply.

The grace ebbs and Cas's hand is wrapped around Dean's arm, palm smothering the Mark. After a moment, Cas lets him go.

Dean breathes in and out. In and out.

“Maybe we aren't doing the best thing for you,” Cas says quietly, crestfallen. “Maybe you do need to be on the road. Maybe 'cooping' you up is just amplifying the problem in the long run.”

Dean can see it now – he can see how his outburst came out of nowhere, can see how it made no fucking sense. After everything they've done for him, he fucked it up anyway.

Of course he fucked it up. Of course he lost control again.

“In any case,” Cas says, “we're trying to get back on the road anyway. Sam is looking for a way to track down Cain. We're trying, Dean.” Cas looks fervently into his eyes and then holds Dean's face in his hand. “Please hold on.”

Dean wants to be angry at him. He wants to be strong enough to break away, to not want to turn his face into Cas's hand.

“I'm so scared, Cas,” he says, and it's an accident, his voice weak and lifeless, like a draft slipping under a crack in a door. “I don't want to die. I don't want to just be _gone_ ,” he says, not very sensically.

“You're not going anywhere,” Cas says, tightening his hold, his fingers still somewhat cold against Dean's skin.

“I'm already gone,” Dean says in frustration. “I'm not here.”

“You _are_.”

Dean swallows and looks away at the edge of the ceiling, like that will stop the hot tear from running down his face. “I don't want to lose this.” His eyes are burning. Cas is finally here with him after all those years, has finally stayed, for once. And everything is wrong. Dean puts a hand to Cas's face and presses his thumb over Cas's cheekbone. I'm going to lose this,” bitterly, rawly, “I'm going to lose everything.” Dean means to destroy this for good, to put an end to it. If Cas won't kill him, then fuck, Dean's gonna do it himself. “I always do. That's just what happens.” He kisses Cas, deep and greedy and starved.

Cas digs his fingers through Dean's hair, holds on to Dean's shoulder hard enough to bruise, pushes back against Dean's mouth with something like desperation.

Cas holds on to him so tightly it surprises Dean, as if he knew Cas was this way but didn't calculate for him to respond as fiercely as Dean anyway, or Cas is always like this, always surprising, an eternal revolution. Maybe, Dean thinks, the door to conscious thinking wedged open for a few moments longer, Cas biting at his lip, this was a mistake. Maybe he can't end it this way. Or maybe it's their last chance. Which they might as well take before it's gone, before _they're_ gone.

Cas breaks away to tug Dean's shirt off over his head and Dean breathes some air into his lungs. “Cas, all that you've done,” Dean gasps, shakes his head, “the Christmas stuff, the sleep, all of this...”

Cas ignores him quite wholeheartedly by kissing him again, like his life depends on Dean shutting up. Cas tastes like the lasagna he ate and like ozone and like sugar under that. Dean lets his eyes close into it. Cas sits him down on the bed, presses his back against the mattress, pins him down even as they're shrugging each other out of their clothes. He grabs the lube out of the nightstand drawer, laser focused; knees pressed against Dean's thighs.

It's deliberate, whatever else it is. It's unhesitant, unawkward. Not like their first time with its little hitches and tender uncertainties. This time it's pure need that drives them, hungry and longing and passionate, Cas rocking into him, their rhythm kinda fucked and it not mattering, faster and tighter, because the whole point is – faster – they are grasping on to whatever they can before it's gone, and—

And then, they're somehow in sync anyway, and time seems to stop moving completely.

***

Dean wakes up with four limbs instead of two.

No, he realizes after a while. That's not right.

Cas is sprawled practically on top of him, octopus-like, one arm and one leg draped over Dean. He's snoring into the nape of Dean's neck, his breath warm on Dean's skin, like the sun might feel if it actually had a way of getting down here.

Oh.

Dean remembers cleaning up. He remembers Cas coming back with him and sliding into bed behind him.

Up until this point, they had been very careful about not spending the night together in the same room, not being caught together in the morning.

Dean should get up. Cas is sleeping like a fucking log, whether that's because of fading grace or his own choice. Dean could extract himself carefully, roll out from under and sneak out of the room.

The Impala keys are probably in Cas's coat. Dean thinks, he could take them back, get dressed as quietly as possible and leave.

He thinks, yeah, who the fuck am I kidding?

He listens to Cas's breathing and he listens to the quiet in his own blood, his bones heavy and unmoving, still, as if he's sunk to the bottom of the ocean floor. The steadiness of him. He's tired and this is the rest he needs.

He shouldn't do it, shouldn't let this drag on any longer than it already has, but he closes his eyes and drifts back off to sleep.

He's awoken by a sharp knocking on the door.

“You guys gonna get up and do Christmas or what?” Sam calls. “It's like, two o'clock.”

Dean's mouth wobbles, trying to find words but failing. Sam leaves again before he can reply.

“Did he just,” Dean says in shock.

“Mmm,” Cas confirms, awake as well.

“Son of a _bitch_. Hey. Did you tell him?”

“No,” Cas shakes his head at the door distrustfully, eyes dangerously narrow in the light Dean reaches over and turns on.

Cas's hair is so bed-headed it looks like a nest that fell out of a tree. Dean's chest aches and then he laughs silently. He concentrates.

“He's just trying to mess with us— with me. He doesn't have any proof. Here's the plan. I'll get dressed and leave and you stay here, wait like, ten minutes, go back to your own room, then walk out of it, okay?”

“Okay,” Cas nods seriously, still sleepy. “I'll stay here, and make sure you leave in ten minutes.”

“No. No, Cas. I leave now, and you leave in ten minutes.”

“Right,” Cas says deeply, gravel-ly. “We both leave, and then after ten minutes we come back together.”

“Cas—” Dean stops, realizing what Cas is up to. “Son of a _bitch_ ,” he says again. “You asshole.” And pushes Cas off of the bed.

That's how they end up making out on the floor, Dean's brain shutting down again, mesmerized by this little piece of shit sort-of-angel, Cas's hair getting more ruffled than ever.

***

“Wait. Did he say it's Christmas?” Dean asks suddenly.

Damn. He really has missed a lot of days.

***

Dean expected to be grumpier that Sam caught them walking into the kitchen together anyway, despite their efforts. “You guys sleep well?” Sam had greeted them, not turning around from whatever he was making on the stove. Dean should be more furious with himself that all he'd managed to say was, “You're gonna burn those eggs.”

But he isn't.

He feels a mild regret about the situation.

He doesn't realize at first that that's because he's growing to _like_ it, already; Sam knowing, it being just a normal dynamic in their trio. No one having to really talk about it. He resents himself for this and makes a comment about the eggs which Sam does, it turns out, burn a little. Cas raises his eyebrows at him and Dean shrugs and resumes shoving his face.

When they take him out to the tree and Dean sees actual fucking presents under it, he's dismayed. “Guys... I didn't get...”

“How could you have?” Cas points out. “We didn't leave you alone for a minute. Anything you would have bought us wouldn't have been a surprise.” Then he says, “You can just get us two presents each next year. That was actually our plan all along,” Cas adds confidentially.

“Oh, really?” Dean sits down, still a little unsure, and when he catches Sam looking at him and Cas with a glowing expression his almost-grumpiness returns. “Well, I'm still pissed at you.” Sam extends a bright green package to Dean. “Let me guess, it's fucking mistletoe,” Dean mutters before he can stop himself.

It's a sweater, maroon with giant white snowflakes on it. Cas gets a green one with birds at the throat and on the sleeves.

“Thanks, Mrs. Weasley,” Dean says.

Sam also gets him car polish and a new polisher. Sam and Cas both get each other books, sciencey nonfiction stuff. Naturally. Dean rolls his eyes but then has to pretend not to be interested.

And then it hits him that he is just staring. At them. At the opened box at his knees. At Cas. At this.

His heart skips a beat in his chest and he's not really sure what that means. He exhales and then Cas nudges him in the elbow.

“Put it on,” he is saying, and Dean looks at him and he's already wearing his own sweater. Dean is promptly overwhelmed by how cute the birds are at Cas's collar and fails to respond, so Cas takes the matter into his own hands and tugs Dean's sweater over his head.

Dean is about to protest – dude, Sam is here – but then, amazingly. He doesn't.

He lets Cas pull his arms gently through the sleeves. The sweater is warm and enveloping, snug and bracing. It makes Dean feel soft around the edges and a little sleepy. It feels like a hug, and Dean quickly decides he doesn't want to know if that really was Sam's reasoning, because he kind of likes it. “How do I look?”

“You look nice,” Cas says, completely monotoned.

Dean's smile slips a little. “You need to work on that.”

“You're a special snowflake,” Cas tries again, looking proud of himself.

Dean closes his eyes. _No, babe, that would be you_ , Dean thinks at him.

And then, with only a few butterflies in his stomach, he finally looks at Sam and rolls his eyes. Sam smiles so deeply and happily and affectionately it's ridiculous.

This isn't what Dean had expected.

He didn't expect himself to be so chill.

This is still a fucking tragedy, it is still all wrong. He still feels their eyes on him when his back is turned. He knows that the three of them are _not_ enough and he's too fucking tired to pretend anymore. But this was supposed to end last night, and it didn't. This... thing. Where Dean doesn't have hope, doesn't dare let himself, but lets himself keep breathing, keep being anyway. Sammy trying to find a way to track down Cain, Cas wrapping around him when he wakes up in the mornings. Dean doesn't feel quite as buried or alone.

Dean can't feel the angry thrumming of the Mark at all, and he knows it's because of Cas, and he knows Cas is gonna run out of grace sooner or later. He knows he's still either gonna end up dead or with the Mark swallowing him completely.

But maybe they have a little more time left than he thought. Maybe this thing they have can stick around for _a little_ longer.

Maybe, he thinks briefly, he could fight for this, for himself.

It's just a spark of thought and then it's gone, Dean stamping it out, shoving it back down again.

“All right, all right,” Dean throws a crumpled bit of wrapping paper at Cas's head and stands up. “Is Christmas over yet?” he asks in half-hearted grumpiness. “You guys have your fun? I think there's tinsel in my mouth.”

Cas just calmly starts to clean up the wrapping paper. “There's still my present for you,” he says, “but it would be inappropriate to give it to you here.”

Dean's mind blanks. Okay, it doesn't blank. Maybe the rest of the room around him does. He watches Cas casually leave the room to throw out the paper.

“Shut up,” he says to Sam.

Sam shrugs, “I didn't say anything!”

“You gotta admit, though,” Dean says suddenly, because bragging about Cas is one of the best things ever and what the fuck, now he can do it with _Sam_ , “Cas is pretty good at this Christmas thing.”

“Okay,” Sam says, “here's the part where we stop talking.”

Dean takes that advice to heart. When Cas comes back, he walks right over to him and kisses him without warning.

_Thank you_.

“It's not actually about Christmas,” Cas says, when they surface, his eyes so blue, so bright with honesty, and yet so soft and careful at the same time.

At least Dean can finally say it now. He can say it without looking away. “I know.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q_IzatQNqdo)]


End file.
